Chapters We'd Rather Keep Unpublished
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: O'Brien is up to no good and it has implications for Mr Carson. AU, one-shot unless anyone has any bright ideas about where it could go. Idea given to me by The Sunday Wife. Carson/Hughes and tiny bits of Anna/Bates too.
1. Chapter 1

**This takes place towards the end of series one, but after the garden party. However, as you will find out, there is a curious lack of war mentioned. I suppose, then, that- for the purposes of this fic- I have rearranged world history. Oh dear. Carson/Hughes. **

**1.**

It was a great bore to have to deal with all three girls as well as her Ladyship, Sarah thought. Damn Anna for being ill. And damn Lady Sybil for taking so long: did she think that a lady's maid had nothing better to do than to wait around for her employer's daughters all day? She wandered distractedly around the bed, scuffing her heels on the carpet deliberately, knowing it would make Mrs Hughes mad to see her. The morning light at the window was unnecessarily bright and she turned her back against it to stop it irritating her.

Her legs were tired and she was very tempted to sit on the bed if the silly girl was going to take this long, but even the baby of the house could scold her and it would be hard to stand up quickly and remove the creases from the bedclothes quickly. She hovered towards the dressing table; considering perching herself on that instead, but no; it didn't look to be a very sturdy structure and the last thing she wanted was a collapsed piece of furniture on her hands. She sighed: Lady Sybil kept her dressing table in an appalling state of clutter, if she let her Ladyship's get like that her guts would be had for garters by multiple parties. She lifted a pile of books to the side, trying to reach a state where the wood could be seen; why did she even keep books on the dressing table anyway? Perhaps Mrs Hughes was right after all, perhaps the youth of today were going all to pot.

Something went fluttering to the floor and she heard herself swear under her breath. Picking it up, she found it was a newspaper clipping: probably more socialist claptrap that bloody fool Branson was drowning the girl in.

"_The Cheerful Charlies..._"

She didn't know that the socialists were big on musical hall. She furrowed her brow and read on.

"Ah, O'Brien, sorry I've been taking my time."

She dropped the clipping to her side as the girl came floating into the room- to put it behind her back would have only attracted more attention- hoping that it would go unnoticed. No such luck though, Lady Sybil could be astute when it suited her.

"Tidying my dressing table?" she asked innocently, but not without a slightly accusing edge, "What's that?" she asked nodding towards the clipping in her hand.

"I'm not sure, m'Lady," Sarah replied, for it was the truth although she did have an astute idea.

She held it out for Lady Sybil's inspection. The girl's frown grew as she read on. Finally, she finished and looked back at O'Brien then at the paper as if trying to calculate something. Sarah waited to see if she would receive an answer.

"It's nothing really, O'Brien," the girl concluded.

No it's not, Sarah thought immediately, you don't frown like that over nothing. Having been mildly interested at first, her intrigue escalated at Lady Sybil's pretence.

"Would you like me to dispose of it, m'Lady?"

Lady Sybil thought and then nodded firmly.

"Yes, O'Brien, I think that would be best," she told her, "Straight away."

_Now _she was interested. She tucked it discretely into her pocket.

"As you wish, m'Lady."

**2.**

"That'll be the day! That tongue of yours'll get you into trouble one of these days, Sarah O'Brien."

Mrs Patmore surveyed her imperiously: she did not suffer fools gladly by any means.

"I'm not making it up!" she protested crossly, "Even my imagination dun't stretch that far! Read it for yourself."

The cook straightened her glasses and took the paper as it was handed to her.

"Cor blimey!" she exclaimed upon finishing, "I'd never have believed it if I hadn't read it with me own eyes!"

"He's no better than the rest of us," Sarah murmured to herself; indignant while beside her the cook hooted with laughter, "Putting on airs and graces he's no right to: no better than the rest of us!"

"He were an 'andsome man in his day," Mrs Patmore told her wiping a tear of mirth from her eye and returning gradually to her pastry.

Sarah snorted at that.

"Well then we can safely say his day's passed then," she declared, turning to lean against the kitchen table in time to see Thomas entering the kitchen, "And I don't care how handsome he's been at any point in his life, he's still no better than the rest of us, no matter how mighty he makes out he is, " she brandished the piece of paper once more for emphasis.

"Who's no better they make out to be?"

You could always, Sarah thought, at the mildest whiff of antagonism rely on Thomas to stick his nose in.

"How long've you got?" she asked dryly, but then seeing the look on his face: "Mr Carson, since you asked."

Thomas picked up a thin slice of cake before Mrs Patmore could put it on the plate and crammed it into his mouth.

"Tell me something I didn't know already," he replied, between mouthfuls, "Why? What's new?"

"This."

She handed him the newspaper. Frowning, he read it quickly; eyes scanning back and forth, comprehension and disbelief mixing in his face. Looking up, she thought she saw him try to hide the fact that he was impressed by her having got her hands on it.

"Where did you get that?" he asked suspiciously, eyeing the paper and then her.

She took it back from him.

"From Lady Sybil," she replied, "I don't know what she was doing with it but I found it in her books."

Thomas, heaven forbid, was thinking; little by little she saw a smirk appear on his face.

"You've come up trumps this time, Miss O'Brien," he admitted, barely attempting to disguise the smile on his face now, "Imagine that; Mr Carson on the stage," he snorted contemptuously, "The Cheerful Charlies, I ask you."

"Now you won't go being unkind about him, will you?" Mrs Patmore waved her rolling pin at the pair, "It's a ridiculous thought, I know, but I'd rather you kept him on side. It could be useful."

She continued to mutter something about "the wench": clearly Mrs Hughes had been asserting her authority once again. Thomas threw her a quick grin.

"When've you ever heard of us being unkind, Mrs P?" he asked, feigning incredulity.

Mrs Patmore shook her head at him, there was no point trying to get through to the youth of today, and returned to her pastry; declaring haughtily that she might as well keep herself out of this whole business but still inwardly chortling at the very idea of the butler tap-dancing. That would certainly keep her amused the next time he or Elsie Hughes felt the need to spring an impromptu pep-talk on them. Thomas and Miss O'Brien, almost telepathic whenever there was gossip to be spread, were dedicated to a united cause; waiting for whomsoever came into the kitchen next, so that they might enlighten them.

"Daisy, come over here a second."

The girl wouldn't wait to be told to do something twice by Thomas and practically came bounding over. Non too quietly she was informed of a shortened yet somehow exaggerated account of the butler's life story. Little did they realise that the subject of their speculations stood silently behind the kitchen doors, listening to every word and hovering on the verge of burying his head in his hands.

**3.**

He had heard enough, he decided. He wasn't going to stand there and hear himself ridiculed by his own staff. As quietly as he could, he stood up so he was no longer resting against the wall and made his way- via the long route so as not to be conspicuous- back towards his pantry, taking care to try and muffle the brisk snap of his shoes on the stone floor. He had almost made it when a small figure in her usual black came almost careering around the corner and into him.

"Oh goodness me! I'm sorry, Mr Carson!" Elsie exclaimed.

There went all pretence of being inconspicuous. But, he thought, she hadn't meant it and sighed accepting her apologies and asking if she was all right; she had come running into him at such a speed that she had staggered almost drunkenly for a moment.

"I'm fine," she assured him, looking up at him, blinking and frowning; "Are you sure you're all right, though?" she asked, her frown deepening in apparent concern, "You look as white as a sheet."

"I'm perfectly all right," he told her, trying to repress the rising echoes of the conversation he'd recently overheard.

"Are you sure?" she asked, "I really shouldn't have been running like that- I'm so sorry- I didn't mean to-..." 

"Really, Mrs Hughes, it's all right," he told her rather brusquely, interrupting her in what, judging by her answering expression, had come across as a sharp manner.

After the moment's uncomfortable silence, she addressed his knees.

"Well, if you're sure..."

"Perfectly sure, thank you."

It was still coming across as sharp, apparently. He couldn't help but notice that she looked rather dismayed.

"Well, I shall be seeing you later, then."

"Good day, Mrs Hughes."

As soon as their final formalities had been exchanged she slipped past him and hurried off down the corridor, arms folded across her chest in an uncomfortably business like fashion.

**4.**

"So that's why he was so standoffish this afternoon!"

It made a certain sense:to a man like Charles- who regarded himself, expected himself to be nothing less than an institution of dignity- such a frivolous revelation must be an incredible blow. Ridiculous male pride!- she thought to herself. Mr Bates, in the chair beside her, nodded.

"I expect that would be it," he told her.

She was hard pressed not to breathe a sigh of relief.

"And here was I thinking I'd offended him somehow!"

Mr Bates smiled quite sadly at her.

"No, I can't imagine you did, anyhow. I expect he just took this whole thing quite hard; he's not exactly the type who enjoys having his personal life discussed around the staff quarters."

"Are any of us?" she asked, breathing back a heavy sigh.

"No," he conceded, "But there are some who enjoy discussing other people's and expect exceptions to be made for them."

They were both hard-pressed not to glance to the other end of the table where Thomas and Miss O'Brien sat together, no doubt conferring. She bowed her head towards the wooden surface; part of her felt guilty for not pressing him to tell her why he had been upset earlier on. Now he had not come for his supper and she was beginning to worry about him, more than usual. But then he hadn't seemed to want to talk. That's why you should have _pressed,_idiot woman, otherwise it would have just been straightforward asking. She shook her head at the conversation she seemed to have inwardly struck up with herself. Mr Bates, she found when she regained some concentration, was watching her- his expression calm and kindly.

"He told me and Anna not to tell anyone. I assumed that meant you. Otherwise I'd have told you sooner, I know you worry about him."

"How long have you known?" she asked, confused. She had been under the impression that it had been just as much of a surprise to hear of it today fo the rest of the staff as it had been for her.

"Quite a while now," he admitted and briefly recounted the circumstances that had lead to him, Anna, Lady Sybil and Lord Grantham hearing about- what he assumed was- one of the more obscure parts of the butler's life.

At points she was tempted to laugh, but held it in: the last thing he needed was to feel that she had joined in ridiculing him, even if he wasn't there to see it.

**5.**

Her knock at the door sounded much braver than she felt. Not really expecting him to answer to anyone at the moment, she waited a moment but wasn't deterred by the lack of response and entered anyway. Sure enough, he was there; it was too early for him to have gone to bed and she had already looked for him everywhere else. He was half-reclined in his armchair, as much as the furniture would allow him, gazing at the ceiling. She cleared her throat to alert him to her presence but received minimal response. That meant trying the next tactic: talking.

"Charles," she began cautiously, "Are you all right?"

Silly question really, when was the last time he'd failed to show up for a meal? However, it seemed to be the question that she was hell-bent on asking him today and so stuck to her guns. Still receiving little response, she pressed on, as she hadn't done earlier.

"I'm... I was worried about you," she told him, "I came to see if you needed anything."

He let out a sigh. At least he was still capable of audible sound, she reflected. But he still avoided her gaze.

"I'm fine," he told her.

"Really," she asked, "Because if you're fine at the moment, I'd hate to think that your usual state means you're being perpetually torn by some inner conflict."

It was a weak stab, but he needed to be told that she wasn't stupid; she had eyes and- he could protest all he liked- he plainly wasn't all right.

He huffed in response.

"Just leave me, Elsie," he told her, "I don't deserve to command any more of your attention."

Ah, so this was what it was all about.

"Why not?" she asked pointedly, folding her arms across her chest and trying her best to look imperious.

To an extent, it worked: at least he was sitting properly now. However he did not answer at first and required a few more seconds of piercing stare to get an audible reply out of him.

"Well, what must you think of me?" he asked, his voice breaking a little, "Miss O'Brien's right: what right have I to command the respect of anyone on this staff, let alone you. Especially you."

She shook her head at him; his flannelling wouldn't get him anywhere with her.

"If this is because you made a living on the stage..." she began, the deep breath she drew adding to her height for a second, "There are far worse ways to do so, as I'm sure you're aware."

"I'm a laughing stock," he told her.

"Is that what matters?" she challenged him, "Who's laughing at you?"

"The staff, my staff- supposedly- are."

"What rubbish! You mean Thomas and O'Brien are, and let's face it, any one of us is lucky if they escape their disparaging comments."

"I've lost the staff's respect."

"No you haven't, you ridiculous man. The only person's respect who you lack is your own."

She had struck a chord, if the silence that followed was anything to go by. And about time too, she thought.

"Charles," she began more gently now, aware of the way his gaze had dropped, "I can honestly say that as far as I can tell the staff think no worse of you. And I know I don't."

She said this last very firmly, just to make sure he got the point. He glanced up: maybe he had.

"Are you sure?" he asked, "Even bearing in mind the tap-dancing idiot I've been?"

She smiled at that. Reaching out her hand to his, she squeezed his fingers in comfort.

"Especially bearing that in mind. I wouldn't mind a private performance, actually."

"Elsie!" 

She laughed at her own flippancy. Thankfully, so did he, after a moments mock sternness. And then he squeezed her hand back.

**End.**

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	2. Chapter 2

**It's not a one-shot any more- obviously. This is due to a great idea given to me by Seaweed Soap. **

**1.**

She called round at his parlour before tea the next evening, stating that she did so for purely social reasons. It wasn't altogether true; she had wanted to check that he was all right after yesterday's shenanigans. Talk had mercifully died down among the servants and by now virtually only O'Brien and Thomas remained interested in the matter, but she thought it best to be cautious: there was nothing, in her experience, more enigmatic than a male ego.

Thankfully, he seemed quite cheerful when he saw her come in. Stating her supposed reason for visiting, she hovered waiting for his response. He might have almost believed that she wasn't there with something of a hidden agenda.

"And you haven't had any trouble today?" she asked tentatively.

"Trouble?"

He opened the draw of the neighbouring filing cabinet and replaced the documents he had been using. Feeling awkwardly isolated, hovering as she was in the room, she perched herself on the edge of his desk. She was making herself rather at home, she realised, but after all she had been standing only yesterday in this very room practically holding hands with him. Looking up from the drawer, he seemed not to mind.

"Yes," she scratched momentarily at her hair, she wasn't quite sure why, "From... from Thomas. Or Miss O'Brien."

"Ah."

He looked as if the circumstances surrounding her unusually timed arrival in his parlour had suddenly become clear to him. He closed the drawer of the filing cabinet.

"No," he informed her pleasantly, "I haven't."

The shortness of the reply made her wonder if she'd been wrong to ask.

"Good," she commented aimlessly, "I was worried."

"You're far too apt to worry," he told her with a smile, "Sometimes I wonder if you enjoy it."

Only about you, she thought. Naturally, she didn't tell him as much for fear of going much too far, but the speed at which the thought presented itself to her alarmed her for the second she dwelt on it. She felt a slight colouring in her cheeks and searched frantically for a change of topic.

"I've found out something," she confided in him, "Something that could help you get your own back."

His face was apprehensive.

"You don't have to approve," she told him hastily, "But at least hear me out first. Miss O'Brien is terrified of spiders."

His face was blank.

"And?"

Men could be dreadfully slow at times.

"How much more do you need me to say?" she asked incredulously, "It's all you need for the perfect revenge!"

His expression as he surveyed her was almost puzzled.

"So you suggest that we spring a spider on Miss O'Brien in revenge for telling the household that I once worked on the stage, thus frightening her out of her wits?"

It sounded a lot more childish when he said it. She grinned guiltily.

"I suppose it does sound rather silly when you say it like that," she admitted reluctantly.

Nevertheless he smiled at her, for which she was thankful; she didn't want him to start thinking her an irresponsible housekeeper.

"You must really dislike the woman," he remarked mildly.

"You could say that," she half-grimmaced, "She's bad enough on a normal day, but this time she really did go too far. I won't have her trying to undermine you like that."

"Thank you," he looked genuinely touched at that, "I'm fine though, Elsie, really. Anything she and Thomas can do can only upset me for a limited time. I' just pleased that you care so much about it."

Now would be an excellent time for you to kiss be, she thought. He stood up and a tremendous flood of hopefulness flashed through her. But he crossed to the side of his desk that she wasn't sitting on and she was left to wonder at her own frivolity.

"What were you going to suggest we did with the spider anyway?" he asked curiously.

"Hm?"

Her train of thought had been doing loop-the-loops.

"How exactly did you intend we exacted our revenge upon Miss O'Brien with a spider?"

"Oh," she searched for an option that wouldn't make her sound too sadistic, "Put one in her tea, slip one under her pillow or just shout "Spider!" in her earshot and watch her leap out of her senses. I can't imagine she'd enjoy finding one in her corset either," she added with a wicked grin.

"Elsie!"

She laughed at his shock. He realised that she had been joking at this last.

"You'd have thought that she'd been used to them," he remarked, "After all it's her who has to fetch things from the attic if her Ladyship wants them."

"She gets Gwen to do it. That's how I found out."

He smiled incredulously and shook his head. She hoped that he was inwardly marvelling at her resourcefulness, but thought it more likely that he had recently realised what a lunatic she was.

"Thank you, Elsie," he repeated, straightening up from sorting his desk.

As he walked to the door to go to tea, he paused for a second and planted a single kiss on her forehead. Though it was his parlour, she remained behind for a few moments while she tried not to fall off the desk and recover herself.

**2.**

Mrs Hughes was a nightmare to find at the best of times. In the end, Anna resorted to asking Mrs Patmore if she'd seen the housekeeper recently.

"I've not," Mrs Patmore admitted, "But then again what I see's limited these days. Have you tried Mr Carson's pantry?"

It had occurred to her, but she didn't like to think that she might be interrupting something, but didn't say as much. Mrs Patmore, though, was evidently some kind of mind reader.

"I shouldn't worry, I'm not sure she'll be interested in him now that she knows he was on the stage. I expect she'll find it frivolous."

Slightly unnerved., Anna departed for the butler's pantry. She doubted it was true; if Mrs Hughes had ever carried a torch for Mr Carson she wasn't likely to drop it just because of something Miss O'Brien and Thomas said. This was what she bore in mind as she bent her ear to the door, just to make sure that she wouldn't be walking in on anything. Sure enough, it was the housekeeper in there and they were talking. It was relatively safe, then to enter. She raised her hand to knock but stopped, hearing what they were talking about: Miss O'Brien and spiders. She, knowing Miss O'Brien, could guess where this conversation might be going.

It disappointed her to hear them decide to do nothing; that could have lead to all kinds of obscure hilarity. It was nice though to hear Mrs Hughes talking like that, even if she didn't dare do it publicly. She had been right then, she wouldn't drop a torch just because of some household gossip. It occurred to her that their decision was probably sensible; if the heads of the household started carrying on like that Downton was unlikely to know what to do with itself. But that didn't mean that she and Mr Bates couldn't.

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	3. Chapter 3

**1.**

"Are you _sure_ we should be doing this?"

Anna rolled her eyes, though she did so with a smile. Deep down she knew he was right to be cautious considering what they were doing.

"I told you," she affirmed, "It was Mrs Hughes' idea, I heard her suggest it. She would have probably done it herself if she could have got Mr Carson to agree to it."

Mr Bates grinned a little at this, probably pleased- as Anna had been- by the feisty side of her personality that the housekeeper had briefly displayed.

"I wouldn't have told her what was going on if I'd known she would react like this," he announced in feigned irritation.

"Yes you would," she informed him, with little doubt in her voice, "She would have talked it out of you, she has a way to make people."

He could obviously imagine that this was true as he said nothing in response, leaning against the wall for a moment. Glancing to ensure that no one was coming, Anna checked her pocket for the glass jar and, most importantly, that it was still inhabited. She had insisted upon large air-holes- it wouldn't be much good if their prime specimen died on them before they even reached the servants' corridor- but had now come to regret it: the mini-heart attack she experienced thinking it had escaped and waiting to feel the crawling sensation somewhere on her body was not one that she relished. Thankfully, the spider still sat in the jam jar, probably profoundly confused by its circumstances. She fleetingly hoped that Miss O'Brien wouldn't kill it in a fit of panic.

"Are we going to get on with it?" he asked, "Or would you like a little longer to form an acquaintance with the spider?"

She scowled at him.

"I'm just working up my nerve," she told him.

"And you're sure she won't know it's you who's done it?"

"Not unless she's psychic."

Which, knowing Miss O'Brien, would be absolutely bloody typical. The smirk on his lips showed that he was thinking the same.

"Try not to get caught," he told her, "Though," he added as an afterthought, "It's only her you really need to watch out for: I imagine anyone else on the staff would give you a medal for it."

She smiled, one hand on the door to the required corridor, the other grasping the jam jar. He saw she was ready for the off- as Mrs Patmore would call it.

"Off you go, then."

**2.**

The piercing shriek could surely be heard by the whole length of the corridor, Elsie thought. Whoever was carrying on at this time?- she wondered, it was well nigh bedtime. Throwing down the nightdress she had been about to change into with a sigh, she hurried into the corridor, looking for any indication of who could have made the sound. It didn't take long, the only door that wasn't open was Miss O'Brien's. Mrs Patmore, standing at her open door in a heavy dressing gown and a hairnet looked at her enquiringly, evidently waiting for some kind of decisive action. She sighed again.

Crossing the corridor not without trepidation, she wrapped on the door. Though she received no reply- she hadn't really expected to- she opened the door anyway and peered round it. She was met by the sight of Miss O'Brien sitting on top of her high chest of drawers, staring frantically down at the floor as if she expected a fire-breathing dragon to spring from there. Given the frankly disturbing noise she had just made, along with her particularly unorthodox use of furniture, Elsie thought that she merited the right to adopt an imperious manner.

"Really, Miss O'Brien," she asked, "What on earth is all of this uproar?"

The expression on the lady's maid's face as she looked up to behold the housekeeper was almost comical.

"Spider," she managed eventually to choke out, "Over there."

She indicated to the bedside table. Sure enough, there sat a jam jar- with rather extravagant holes in its lid- containing a solitary spider. Elsie was more than confused: she could have sworn blind that Charles had talked her out of her plan. But here sat evidence to suggest that she had gone along with it anyway, yet she couldn't for the life of her remember looking for a spider in the first place.

"I will remove it," she told Miss O'Brien, moving to the bedside table and scooping up the jar, "Now for heaven's sakes, come down from that chest of drawers before you send it through the floor."

It took her a further five minutes to coax the lady's maid back to the floor, all the while her head doing loop-the-loops: there was something quite seriously wrong with her if she could go to the trouble of planting a spider in someone's room and not be able to remember doing so afterwards. Assuring Miss O'Brien that no further creepy-crawlies were lurking she returned to the corridor.

Charles was standing there, though mercifully he hadn't not changed yet either or else she thought she might have had a heart attack. Having been talking in a low voice to Anna, he looked around to see her approach.

"Anna let me in," he informed her, apologising for his unusual presence on this side of the door, "Is everyone all right? I wondered what the screaming was about."

Walking to the other side of him so that the maid wouldn't hear her, she spoke in a quiet voice that felt far too high-pitched.

"I think I'm going crazy!"

He frowned at her, waiting for an explanation. Not trusting herself to give one verbally, she simply held up the jam jar. His eyes widened once he realised what she was implying.

"Oh Elsie," his voice was low and for the most part serious, but she could have sworn she detected a hint of a chuckle, "You didn't, did you?"

"No!" she protested in a squeak, "Of course not! But then I don't see how it could have got there at all."

Charles reached and took the jam jar out of her hand, inspecting it and its contents. She thought he looked at it rather fondly.

"I recognise this covering," he said at last, indicating to the checked cloth with several holes in it which was serving as a lid.

"Where from?" she asked.

"Anna!"

The maid, who had been just about to slip back into her room, froze. Then, after a long moment, she peered her head back around the door frame, biting the inside of her lip.

"Yes, Mr Carson?" she asked tentatively.

He sighed deeply.

"I believe you have some explaining to do."

**3.**

"We were lucky to get out of that one alive," she sighed sitting down next to him at breakfast the next day.

They were the only two there and so took the opportunity to discuss their exploits.

"I don't know," he replied with a smile, "Mrs Hughes didn't look as displeased as she should have done when she told me about it. I think she was secretly quite proud of you."

She laughed out loud a little at that. It was true, once she had explained to Mrs Hughes that she had done it because of what Miss O'Brien had said about Mr Carson- although, of course, omitting that she had overheard the conversation in his parlour- Mrs Hughes had certainly ceased to be as foreboding. She grinned at the slightly absurd memory of the slightly absurd experience: someone trying to congratulate her while also trying to pretend to tell her off.

"How is Miss O'Brien?" he asked, looking as if he only narrowly avoided giving quite a wicked grin.

"A bundle of nerves this morning!" Mrs Patmore bustled in from the kitchen, arms laden with plates, "I can't imagine what's got into her!"

Apparently, the butler and housekeeper had remained good to their word and had not informed Miss O'Brien who had been responsible for the incident, provided that it never happened again.

"I think it was something to do with a spider," Mr Bates informed her.

Anna gulped at her tea, trying not to laugh to conspicuously.

"Makes sense," remarked the cook, bustling back out again.

They only just managed to hold their laughter in until she was out of earshot.

"We're acting like children," Anna remarked between hoots.

"I know," he replied, "But it's fun."

That was true. She found she quite liked being silly with Mr Bates, though she would swear otherwise if Mrs Hughes ever asked her.

"What's all of this silly giggling?"

As if on cue, the housekeeper entered the room. Anna immediately arranged her facial features more seriously. She needn't have, however. Although she never thought she'd see the day; Mrs Hughes had only been teasing and she was shortly followed by the butler; her mood was light. They took up their usual seats a short distance away from Anna and Mr Bates. There was a kind of mutual respect in the room- between the four of them- now, Anna thought: she and Mr Bates had seen a decidedly more human side to the heads of staff and had earned the respect of their superiors themselves by doing their bidding without being asked. Mrs Hughes looked happier than Anna had seen her in days and Mr Carson did even more so. Both sat quietly, lazily tapping the fingers of one hand on the surface of the table. Lowering her gaze, she saw that they seemed to be holding hands behind the table leg. And in spite of herself, for a moment she thanked the Lord for Miss O'Brien's meddling.

**End. (This time, unless anyone has more ideas)**

**Please review if you have the time!**


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